Chapter 9 - Learning to Swim
By June, the summer sun had warmed the air, turning Lake Michigan into a shimmering sheet of sapphire blue.
For my thirtieth birthday, Nolan gave me a small, wrapped wooden box. Inside lay a pair of professional swimming goggles and a set of keys.
""What is this?"" I asked, looking up at him in surprise.
""I rented a private, indoor rehabilitation pool at the athletic center outside the city for the summer,"" Nolan said softly, taking my hands in his. ""Just you and me. No spectators, no depth markers that terrify you, no rush. Whenever you're ready, I want to teach you how to swim.""
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. ""Nolan... I don't know if I can. The panic... it’s in my bones.""
""The panic was put there by people who wanted you weak, Maren,"" he said, his thumb gently caressing the back of my hand. ""Let me help you take your strength back.""
The first session was agonizing. Standing on the edge of the shallow, three-foot heated pool, my chest constricted so tightly I felt like I was suffocating on dry land. The smell of chlorine triggered vivid flashes of Elk Lake, of small hands pressing down on my six-year-old skull, of high heels clicking on wet tile.
Nolan stood in the water, waist-deep, holding his arms out toward me. He didn't tell me to hurry. He didn't make a joke.
""Look at me, Maren,"" he whispered. ""Don't look at the water. Look at my eyes.""
I met his gaze. His steady, unyielding calm acted like an anchor in a raging sea.
Slowly, one step at a time, I walked down the pool steps until the warm water reached my waist. My breathing was ragged, my hands trembling uncontrollably. Nolan stepped closer, wrapping his strong arms securely around my waist, supporting my entire weight.
""I have you,"" he murmured against my hair. ""Nothing is going to pull you under. Not today. Not ever.""
Over the next three months, we spent every Tuesday and Thursday evening in that pool.
He taught me how to put my face in the water and blow bubbles, celebrating each tiny victory as if I had conquered Everest. He taught me how to float on my back, holding his hand gently under my spine until I realized the water wasn't an enemy trying to swallow me—it was merely an element, and my body was built to rise.
By late August, I stood at the edge of the deep end—eight feet deep.
The dark water shimmered beneath the overhead lights. For twenty-four years, this exact depth had been the monster under my bed, the shadow that followed me into adulthood.
Nolan was treading water ten feet away, smiling at me.
""Whenever you're ready,"" he called out.
I took a deep, filling breath into my lungs. Then, I pushed off the concrete edge and dove in.
The water rushed past my ears, cold and clean. I sank down, watched the light refract through the surface, and felt my feet hover above the deep blue floor. There was no panic. No burning in my throat. No cruel laughter echoing in the dark.
May you like
I kicked my legs, swept my arms through the water in clean, steady strokes, and broke through the surface into the warm summer air, laughing out loud.
Nolan swam over, his face glowing with pride, and wrapped his arms around me. Right there, in eight feet of water, he pulled me close and kissed me.
